London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellorsitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. Asmuch mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired fromthe face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet aMegalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantinelizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots,making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big asfull-grown snowflakes--gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses,scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers,jostling one another's umbrellas in a general infection of illtemper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens ofthousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and slidingsince the day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new depositsto the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those pointstenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest. Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aitsand meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls deified among thetiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (anddirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out onthe yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog droopingon the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes andthroats of ancient Greenwich